Dark Imagination
by TheStrangeFreakyMentalWriter
Summary: Short take on all the movies made, and how to they'll never die. One-shot/song. Dark In My Imagination by Of Verona.


All humans are imperfect. For those who . . .

Lie to others for pleasure.

Trust those to get what they want.

Break the weak and become the strong.

Care for the little things and cover what is really there.

Split the brain to become something else no one will understand.

All that is left in those minds of those dirty pigs, is what makes them live each day. From day to the dark of night. Skeptic that if they wanting to see the world anymore. Those wasted their times cradling those worthless space of life. Slowly falling apart from everything and wished for death.

But that's not for them to choose.

Death that is.

Those worthless beings, strapped down. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Eyes held wide open for them to see what they have become. Alone. With a voice unlike any they have ever heard of before.

Haunting them.

Toying with them.

Break them.

Their blood runs cold. Dripping down to the ground. Heart pumping for its last few moments, before finally stopping.

Iron fills the room. Choking as the smell grips their lungs.

Limbs twitching for that last moment of life, as its slowly slips away.

Sight fades away, blurring to black.

A small sign that they failed for a second chance at life.

From time to time, one may win the game. But for how long? Until they have no choice to come back and relearn everything from scratch.

Where the games only get harder and harder, as the game goes on.

The screams never seem to get old, for only that's from a new screamer.

Oh, and how they never fail to send a sweet chill through the body of the keeper of the game.

Having no choice to higher the stakes.

Time to time, a human, a very simple-minded human. Will favor something of theirs and will never give up.

Comes a moment, that it must forever be broken away.

Acid or stretcher seems to do the job just right.

Watching of a clear liquid, that looks to harmless at sight. Can burn through anything. Melting everything in its path. Like ice on a warm summer's day.

Leaving behind a puddle of gore, flesh, and bone. Mixed together as a distasteful broth.

Having only the eyes left to linger about, seeing without seeing who was at fault.

Another time, when they seem to finally fight back.

A grinder always makes them want to run, but that's a choice for them.

Having to watch each part of their body disappear into darkness.

Machinery running as fast as a herd of horses. The wonderful noises of millions of tiny chain-saws working as one. Far better than what they could ever do.

Metal against flesh can vastly be heard.

Bone as well. A lovely crunching sound.

Their clothes being ripped away, along with skin.

Showing the bright red muscle, purple veins gushing to live, white bone snapped away from the body.

Last things to hear are the pleads that they did nothing wrong.

Yet, how did they get here, if they did nothing wrong?

What works the best out of anything.

Is to tell them why they came here. Showing of pitifully their lives are.

How little they seem.

The families they done wrong to. Their own family they have mistreated as test rats and slabs of meat.

Throwing away everything for one pleasure. Or nothing at all for the greed that runs their minds out to the edge of a cliff.

And how that bottom just seems to go and go.

Others have said, that getting to hell, is a long way down, and very likely unable to climb out of.

_We're going to play a little game. And the prize to win . . . is your life._

Oh, their cries.

_A pathetic pig-whore such as yourself, give a better chance you might just live._

They'll beg and beg, wanting to just leave. Now what fun is that?

_But as this game goes on, you'll see who can fully be trusted and who will get you closer to the exit._

_Now, let the games begin. And may the best rat win._

Toying with them.

Like they are toys, little figures that run about in a building town made only by one ruler.

There is a chance, that now and then, a whiny brat will throw a toy into a fire.

A slow death, but enjoyable to watch, even more when that toy tries to crawl out of the flames.

Another would be drowning. A pool or puddle on the side of the sidewalk.

Works just as well, another slow death, even more painfully slow when chained and hungry animals are waiting.

It's a show that can't ever be missed.

Those whiny brats have clever minds on their shoulder.

A sign they may end up here soon enough.

Survival instinct.

Two simple little words, they can mindlessly be pass through the lips without much thought.

Yet the impact is worth it.

How those petty little bugs will ripped away one part of themselves to live.

Even killing a love one . . .

If needed that is.

Some don't care much for, a mistress that is fuck with the wife out.

A person who spends away in secret, until it's brought into the light that is.

Very little a person who killed, raped, and god's knows what else.

Just to see that hated enter the eyes, is enough.

So much more can happen.

With the right kinds of dues and imagination.

All will someday see what they are and come face it.

Dragged away from that world.

Into a far darker world.

Where none will leave, until they are fully seen cleansed.

If anything, the words given to those foolish people. Will not be forgotten so easily.

And for each pray that was label from then on by the death that did them in.

Memories still fresh has it was just not long ago.

Paul Leahy: died in a maze of razors, having him slowly die from blood loss. His hand the only thing at came close to the finish line.

Mark Rodriguez: burned alive by mere candle thrown to his jellied covered body, leaving him to become nothing but ash.

Donnie Greco: had an unwanted meeting with a _doctor_ that had shaky hands, as guts scattered the floor.

Detective Steven Sing: a foolish person who dared get in the way, leaving behind an intact body and a head about the halls he dared himself to walk them.

Detective David Tapp: shot by a puppet led by a puppet master.

Zep Hindle: he had to go, leading to his death, bludgeoned by a shit box. Perfect for a shitty person.

Adam Faulkner: if cutting off his own foot and left dead means nothing. There is no point to dwell in him any longer than needed.

With a list like this, you think would be over? Far from it. Living in world like this, still leaves many to go. Just as these . . .

Michael Marks: death by a mask made just for him, rusty nails and all.

Gus Colyard: peeping through the wrong hole, an eye lost, with a puddle of blood to show it.

Obi Tate: it was cold that day and there was no wood to ever be found. That furnace needed to eat.

Laura Hunter: entering the wrong, how the nerve of her. A nerve that needed to vastly be rid of. She must enjoy the smell of that gas, seeing she wasn't going anywhere else.

Amanda Young: a too trusting girl, who felled into a pit of needles, her twitching body left to see.

Jonas Singer: another too trusting fool, not seeing that bat coming from a person he shortly called allied.

Addison Corday: a sticky finger gal, with lovely wrists. Even more when gore dripped down from them.

Xavier Chavez: a boy who had a lot going for him, also could have made it. If that choice of kill or be killed. Killing himself seem to oddly be the better choice. What a fool he was.

Lawrence Gordon: a fate unplanned, leaving behind much of himself. A foot at most. Might have been one of the few lucky puppets to live? Unsure really.

No matter.

This mind isn't done yet. For that, some traps need to quickly be tested.

For this rat, we'll call . . .

Troy: loose chains ripped from his body, but not fast enough to outrun the timer bombs. Shame on him for wasting time, as he did in his everyday life.

Detective Allison Kerry: a prying woman who should have minded her own business. But that blood angel is a nice touch, even with a half eaten hand.

Danica Scott: she needed to cool off.

Judge Halden: another odd fate, wish it no other way. I thank the person who decided to befriend Judge.

Timothy Young: ripped apart just as a child would to do doll.

Adam Faulkner: that little fucker had to go, for he didn't learn from last time. A mercy kill if you will take it as that.

Amanda Young: a strong puppet that went weak at the last moment, a scream that is not needed to hear. That shot to neck was also a mercy killing.

John Kramer: a man who grow sloppy, a slip to the throat was an unjust kill. For he was just a petty man needs not a powerful death. Jigsaw, you have failed many.

Dr. Lynn Denlon: that collar fit her well, having her brain shown to world was just a bonus.

Even with the death of Jigsaw gone, that does mean the legend should as well. Moving on, moving on . . .

Trevor: a game as this, became a mock of whack-of-mole.

Brenda: she loved her hair, became less so when watching it skull-deep ripped out.

Ivan Landsness: eyes watched last moments as his limbs pulled away and the Grim's tool sliced his eyes away.

Rex: A live game of darts.

Gideon Kramer: death by door, pity really.

Cecil Adams: face butchered, walking aimlessly into a pit of razor wire. Never once tried to get out.

Jeff Reinhart: died for nothing but some cash to eat the next day.

Eric Matthews: he needed to chill, between to cold places of rock.

Art Blank: he needed to forever be quiet, a shot to the mouth is what he needed.

Lt. Daniel Rigg: had to died for the death of another death. It is fair in this game.

Many more came, the list just grows and grows.

the imagination does as well.

For as long pigs roam the world.

Death is the only answer.

Many would think otherwise.

Thinking it's not a wise choice.

What do they know.

A man of pure mastermind of gore died, because another wanted it to stop.

Fairness is not what this is.

No, far from it.

The mastermind might be dead, his puppet might be no more.

But that does mean for those bystanders, reading that black and white paper, blasting _crimes_ of a crazed man.

False, all false.

He wasn't crazy, he was doing what was right!

This isn't the last you have heard of him. More will follow in his place and do what is right.

This world needs to become pure. Doesn't matter if it's wrong.

The wrong there is, is the one who dares to stop.

Jigsaw, your world will not fade, all will come to a full circle.

Just call this fable maker, J. Junior.

The End.


End file.
